304
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
"Before we go in," Zaki said, "Lend me your watch. I have
left mine at headquarters."
I feared that if I parted with my watch I'd never see it again.
But if I didn't surrender it, Zaki might turn in a nasty report.
But I knew Zaki well. I snatched my bag from the Arab and
glared at Zaki. "Take me to the Legion commander and make
your report. If you lie, I have means of getting back at you.
Yallah!"
I led the way into the former police station. Inside, officers
of the Arab Legion were all around. Compared to the hooligans I had been meeting, these were civilized men. Their
khaffiya was not the white headdress worn by Palestinian
Arabs, but a red-and-white checkerboard fabric which fell
over their English khaki uniforms. I saw Zaki in earnest conversation with a handsome youthful officer who glanced at me
occasionally. The shield of the Hashemite Kingdom of TransJordan—crossed Islamic swords, a crown, and the words: "The
Arab Army," encircled by a wreath—was fastened to his
khamya. The officer displayed no emotion as Zaki talked on
lengthily. He merely nodded between an occasional question
he put to him; then, finally, he motioned me to come over.
In perfect English he said:
"I am Major Abdullah el Tel, Commander of the Arab
Legion in Jerusalem."
"I have heard many fine things about you, Major," I said.
"From the Jews?"
"Certainly not! From the Armenians. We have been well
impressed by the Arab Legion." As it turned out, I happened
to strike the truth.
The major said a few words in Arabic, to which Zaki made
no answer.
"Tell me about the Jews. What is their condition?"
I gushed a theatrical confession of their difficult plight
which, however, revealed nothing the Arabs did not already
know.
"We know very well they are desperate for food and water.